Tuesday, August 11, 2015

You step off the plane into the sweltering Arabian heat,
your fingers already loosening your tie, a bead of sweat already trickling down
your spine. You can feel the heat from
the sizzling airport apron through the soles of your Balenciagas, and already
you're wondering why you agreed to this trip. "It'll be good for our profile," they told you. "We need this right now," they said. "Public opinion is low."

But you're not sure how much you care anymore.

With each step, striding toward your waiting car, your Clubmasters
slide a little further down the slick bridge of your nose. Even though the effort is futile, every ten
feet or so, you reach up and adjust them with a middle finger – and the choice
of this finger is no accident. No. Nothing you do is without purpose.

The sleek black form of the Bentley Flying Spur is still
perched one hundred feet distant when the driver exits the vehicle and circles
the car to wait by the rear door. You
wish you were closer to tell the poor sonofabitch to stay in the comfort of the
air-conditioned car. You wish you were
closer to wave off these formalities with a casual air. You wish you
were closer to tell him that you can open your own goddamned door. But you're not, so you don't, and you wouldn't
anyway, because you understand this is just how things work.

Your back is soaked in sweat, and though you're only
fifty feet from the car, you shrug out of your black blazer in an effort to cool
down. You pull your tie completely out
of your collar. Your phone told you it
would be 120 degrees here today, but your brain wasn't even able to compute
such hell. And now that you're in it, it
still seems unreal. Your shirt sticks to
you, and sweat streams down the crack of your ass. It takes a Herculean effort, but you put a
little more jump in your step, jacket and tie dangling from your hands.

You're a dozen feet from the car when the driver pops
open the rear door revealing an interior of black leather and chrome. A figure lounges on the far side, hands busy
with a bottle and glass. Ice cubes
clink. You hear the dull drone of the Bentley's
AC, and your ears catch the welcome pouring of liquid. Gin, you guess. The man who readies your favourite drink is
not a stranger. This much you know. You share an opaque chunk of the past that would be better for each to never surface again.

But to share a a drink in an air-conditioned oasis while you drive through hell, well, there are worse things, you suppose.

Friday, July 31, 2015

The cool chill of a wet pint of ale in your hand. The first acrid taste wetting your lips. Tiny bubbles of carbon dioxide rise to the
surface of the beer and pop, releasing a fine spray of mist against the tip of
your nose. These are the things you
relish. This is now. You squint across the pub through the smudged
windows into the afternoon sunlight. Relief. It’s a relief to have something, anything, to
do besides make eye contact with her.

Your sight drifts languidly past the packed patio, past
the bustling sidewalk, past the gridlocked street, over top the countless roofs
of houses and apartments buildings, to an indeterminate spot in the scattered clouds
beyond. How long has it been? Eight years.
Nine. You don’t know. You don’t keep track of such things.

Time is a paradox-

Constructed, constrictive,

an imaginary
prison.

Her chair legs roughly scrape across the scarred floorboards. A subtle signal to you that she’s over this
awkward silence, a subtle signal you answer with your own – a forced clearing
of your throat. You take another sip of
ale, smiling into the mouth of your pint, and turn to meet her eyes.

She returns the smile, warm, genuine.

You sigh and return the pint glass gently to the table.

“How long has it been, you think?” she asks.

“Eight years, at least,” you say, squirming in your chair.

“It’s been ten.”

“Well, I’ll be damned.”

You pull out your phone to check the time, a habit, and you’re
suddenly aware of the date, the year: 2015.
It hits you in the gut like a punch from a heavyweight champion. Anxiety rises.

This is that thing humans do for each other. They reassure one another that time has forgotten
them. They pretend they’re staying
young. They paw at the possibility of
immortality – it’s right around the corner.
They hang onto youthful pursuits a touch too long. Attempt to understand the next
generation. Fight to stay relevant. Don’t even think about dying.

But it’s too late.
Now you are. Thinking about
dying, that is.

It’s why you don’t think about the past or the future. Why you avoid old acquaintance. Why you won’t watch reruns of Seinfeld. Why you don’t look at photos. You don’t need a reminder that you’re older,
that you’re creeping closer to the end, that time will not stop.

You can feel your heart racing. A lump growing in your throat.

You know the next question, and know you have to circumvent
it: What have you been up to? A question
designed to make one take stock, to measure, to explain your yesterdays. But you don’t do that.

“What are you thinking about today?” you ask quickly. “Any new ideas?”

She appears caught off guard at first – a head tilt, lips
slightly parted – but relaxes a moment later, sighing, lounging back in her
chair. She takes a drink.

“Actually,” she says, “it’s funny you should ask. I've been running over this idea for a new short
story since last night.”

And you soak it up, heart rate returning to normal, relaxing. Time stretches, pulled taut by her words,
strung between them like taffy. This is
how you’ll beat it, this cursed short life.
This is how you’ll beat time. This
is your cheat, your loophole, your workaround.
You stick in the present. No
reminiscing. No planning. No past. No future.
Only now.

You take a gulp of ale, and feel the cool chill of the
wet glass in your hand. The slowly warming
liquid wetting your lips. The scent of
hops in your nostrils. These are the
things you relish. This is now.